The new grapes on the vine tremble in the rising stormwind which comes gusting through the vineyard. It is growing dark.

Acir is gripped with a sudden and inexplicable sense of terror.

‘Acir.’

A man stands between the young vines. A hood covers his face, shadowing the features. How does he know Acir by name? The voice, though low, is sweet as the taste of new wine on the tongue, sweet and strong.

‘I have a gift for you, Acir.’

‘A gift?’

The hooded stranger draws from the breast of his robe a green spray and offers it to Acir.

He slowly stretches out his hands to take the spray – and as his fingers close around the branch, he sees the drops of living blood on the fresh leaves from the torn and lacerated hands of the stranger, red as new wine.

The spray is a rose branch, prickled with vicious thorns that pierce deep into his own flesh. His blood begins to trickle, mingling with the blood of the stranger.

‘Ahh… it burns !’ Seared by the fiery pain. Acir looks up into the shadowed face.

‘What do you want of me?’ His whispered question is almost drowned in a distant grumble of thunder.

For answer, the stranger beckons him towards the vines. In the stormlight, Acir sees the new grapes have shrivelled, the green leaves have turned dry and brown.

‘They are dying.’ The stranger begins to walk away into the darkness of the oncoming storm. ‘Save them. Save my harvest, Acir.’

‘What must I do to save them? Tell me what I must do!’

The stranger turns and looks back and in the sudden pale brilliance of lightning, Acir sees his face.

‘Now do you know me?’

Acir awoke with a start, heart pounding with exhilaration. The young vine leaves rustled softly, stirred not by the storm wind but a faint, warm breeze. Overhead the stars glittered in a cloudless sky.

He knew it had only been a dream – and yet such a vivid dream that he gazed down at his hands in the starlight, half-expecting to see the bleeding thorn-scratches where the burning blood of the Poet-Prophet had mingled with his own.

It was dawn by the time Acir reached Bel’Esstar.

Even as he approached the city, he sensed that something was wrong.

Three bodies swung slowly from the gallows on Pasperdu Hill. A guard of four Guerriors was stationed beneath the gallows.

Acir dismounted and strode over to the guard.

‘What’s happened? Who were these men? Why were they hanged?’

‘Conspirators, Captain. Revolutionaries. They tried to murder an officer of the Commanderie.’

Acir gazed up at the bodies. Sacks had been tied over their heads. But he knew only too well who they were. Girim had deliberately disregarded his recommendations. He had made an example of the musicians.

‘Cut them down.’

‘But our orders were to –’

‘Your orders have changed. Cut them down. And let their families have the bodies for burial.’